


Courtship Dance

by sassyjumper



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst and Humor, Drunkenness, Gen, Ties & Cravats, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 02:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassyjumper/pseuds/sassyjumper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson wears his infamous green tie again. House has concerns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Courtship Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the House_Wilson Dropped Plot Line Challenge on LJ. In the Season 1 episode "Fidelity," House gets on Wilson's case for wearing a green tie, even though Julie (wife #3) hates green. This is what could've happened next.

 

 

 

“Hey,” House said, as he pulled up next to Wilson at reception. “I see you’re having lunch again with New Oncology Nurse.”

Wilson furrowed his brow, but didn’t look up from the file he was defiling with his unique brand of scrawl. “And what makes you say that?”

“You’re wearing the green tie of sex.”

This time Wilson did look up. “Excuse me?”

“The tie,” House gestured toward the ridiculous green silk wrapped around Wilson’s neck. “It’s apparently how you signal that you’re _ready and willing._ If you were a peacock, your feather train would be composed entirely of green ties.”

“I see.”

“You see?”

“No. Not at all, actually. But I don’t have the time or the will to dissect that statement.” Wilson started to walk away, as if that would end the conversation.

“What’s the mystery?” House asked, limping alongside him. “You think you’re irresistible in green. So when you want to attract a new mate, you display your green tie and commence your courtship dance. Much like the peacock, you perform this dance in the same location that’s brought you success before…The hospital cafeteria, in your case. A real peacock would be more discreet.”

Wilson stopped in his tracks and pinched the bridge of his nose—a gesture he thought conveyed annoyance. But House knew what he was really doing: obscuring his face and eyes so he could lie (or buy time to devise a lie) without giving a tell.

“I had lunch with a co-worker,” Wilson said tiredly. “I have no plans to…fan my feather train.” He continued toward the elevators.

“Riiight,” House replied, following close behind. “You couldn’t keep your train in your pants if you tried.”

Wilson spared a glance over his shoulder as he hit the elevator button. “I think we’ve extended the peacock metaphor as far as it should logically go.”

“Really?” House wrinkled his nose. “Because it actually contains the word ‘cock,’ you know.”

“I’ve noticed,” Wilson assured him, keeping his eyes on the elevator doors.

House decided to switch tactics. “OK then,” he said casually, tapping his cane on the floor. “What time do you wanna grab lunch?”

Wilson still didn’t look at him. “I…don’t have much time today. I’m just gonna eat in my office.”

“Oh,” House said with mock cheer, as the elevator doors slid open. “Did Julie pack you a PB and J?”

“Something like that,” Wilson muttered as he stepped into the car. He turned to look at House. “I do have the right to eat lunch without you.”

As the doors closed, House smiled and said, “But what fun is that?”

 

*******

 

Just as he’d expected, House found Wilson in the cafeteria, sharing a cozy table for two with a blonde.

 _Poor thing must still be having trouble,_ House thought as he moved toward his target. _Ohmygod, oncology is so harrrd._

Before he could ambush the couple, however, Wilson looked up—as if sensing House’s presence. Upon spotting him, Wilson closed his eyes.

House smiled as he arrived at the table. “Oh hey, new nurse,” he said in his faux-friendly voice.

Wilson just glared for a moment, while his companion looked back and forth between them. Then she offered an awkward little laugh. “Um, my name’s Susan,” she said, extending a hand toward House.

“That’s great,” he told her, not taking his eyes off Wilson. In his periphery, he saw Blonde Susan retract her hand.

“OK,” she said, sounding puzzled. “Should I let you—”

“Yes,” House confirmed.

Wilson sighed. “Dr. House, can this wait? We’re just finishing lunch—”

“Oh,” New Blonde interjected. “You’re Dr. House? I mean, I should’ve known…” She glanced at the cane. “I—Well, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

House finally turned toward his enemy. _Julie’s enemy,_ he corrected himself, pushing aside the fact that he didn’t care about Julie.

“Don’t get too excited,” House replied. “Tales of my girth have been slightly exaggerated.”

“House,” Wilson warned lowly.

But Blondie Sue seemed unfazed. She just stifled a laugh then said, “No. I don’t think the stories about you have been exaggerated, Dr. House.”

House and Wilson both looked at her. Nurse Blonde Susan blushed a bit before rising from her chair.

“I actually do have to go, Dr. Wilson,” she said apologetically. She picked up her tray then paused to smile at him. “Thank you again. You really have made me feel comfortable here.”

Wilson flashed his “That’s my job” smile. House rolled his eyes. “See ya, Susie,” he barked, plopping down on her vacated chair.

“Dr. House,” she replied, with a nod and an odd little smile.

“What the hell was that?” House asked Wilson, when Susan was barely out of earshot.

Wilson sighed in exasperation. “I told you. I am not having an affair—”

“No, not that. What was that weird look she gave me?”

Wilson blinked. “Since when do you care about weird looks? That’s practically all you get around here.”

“But she’s new,” House objected, reaching for Wilson’s fries. “It usually takes them about a month to catch on.” He wagged a fry. “What do those oncology nurses say about me?”

“I’ve fallen behind on my gossip surveillance. People keep coming to my office, complaining of tumors.”

“You should lock your door,” House advised.

“Hmmm,” Wilson nodded. Then he watched as House grabbed his remaining fries. “You’re right,” he deadpanned. “Eating without you is no fun. And much more caloric.”

House actually waited till he’d swallowed his food to respond. “Well, you do have to keep your girlish figure, for optimal flirting…So I guess I’m subtly helping to subvert your marriage.”

He paused, struck by the truth in that statement.

OK, he stole Wilson’s fries because fries were fucking delicious. But there was a wider truth: As much as a part of him detested Wilson’s flirting, another part wanted to encourage it. There was no denying the smug satisfaction he got from the fact that none of these women, even the wives, ever lasted.

Wilson was looking at him pointedly. “You have a lot of unsubtle ways of undermining my marriage, too.”

“Oh, please,” House sneered. “If you spend more time with me than with your wife, that’s your choice. I have yet to put a gun to your head.”

Wilson held up a hand. “Fine. Point granted.” Then he sighed and pushed to his feet. “Well, this has been…lunch. I gotta go.”

“Wait a minute,” House said reflexively. He wasn’t even sure why he was stopping Wilson; he just knew he wanted him to stick around.

When Wilson looked at him expectantly, House had to scramble for something to say. “Sooo…Do you and Suzie have a date tonight, or are you free?”

Wilson pressed his lips together. “I am not having an affair. I’m just being nice to her…And yes, I’m free.” His face softened and House nodded.

No further words were necessary. Wilson would come by his office tonight and they’d leave together. House predicted that he would drive; Wilson seemed to be in an imbibing kind of mood. Which was fine with House. Julie, on the other hand, would most definitely disapprove. And that was also fine with House.

 

*******

 

“And then Foreman had the nerve to suggest Charcot-Marie-Tooth disease,” House bitched, before tossing a handful of mixed nuts into his mouth.

“The moron,” Wilson scoffed then giggled. He was almost through his fourth drink, a rum concoction called the Morphine Drip. Bars located near hospitals tended to do things like that.

House smirked, taking a sip from the bourbon he’d been nursing for the past hour. “But enough about work,” he proposed. “Let’s chat about our home lives, shall we?”

Wilson tried to fix him with a glare, but his eyes were glassy, and the left one was more askew than usual. “I don’t wanna talk about my wife.”

House put his forearms on the table and leaned forward. “Can we at least talk about why you always call her ‘my wife’? I mean, I can understand why you’d occasionally forget her name. There’ve been so many of them—”

“House,” Wilson groaned. “Seriously. Julie and I are…I don’t wanna talk about it.”

House sat back in his chair. “Well, we’ve already discussed Cuddy’s cleavage and maligned my team. If I can’t harass you, what’s left on the conversation front?”

“We could mock strangers,” Wilson said hopefully.

House gave the bar a quick scan. It was a Wednesday night, so the place was nearly empty. The few patrons there looked to be hospital/university-types; House preferred not to waste mocking-time on them during non-business hours.

He returned his attention to Wilson, who was now looking at him from under his lashes, almost coyly. House felt his breath catch; Wilson only looked at him that way once in a while—usually when drunk—and it never failed to make House feel…funny.

“Y’know. I _dooo_ have a question,” Wilson said, in that borderline-bashful way that had endeared him to the PPTH nursing, cafeteria and janitorial staff.

House narrowed his eyes. “Oh-kayy.”

Wilson took a moment to polish off his drink. Then he gave House The Eyes again, this time with added Shy Smile. “Um. Do you really think…I’m pretty?”

House felt his stomach drop. He’d been poised to poke fun at whatever would fall from Wilson’s drunken mouth. But now all he could muster was, “Huh?”

Wilson giggled again. “Last week, when you brought up the whole tie thing. You, uh, kinda said I’m pretty.”

 _Shit._ Had he really let something so stupid slip out? House quickly consulted the mental database where he maintained all of his interactions with Wilson…Nope. No way had he said that.

House shook his head. “No, sorry. I said you _wanted_ to look pretty. Big difference.”

Wilson’s little smile started to widen into a knowing grin. “I don’t think there’s a big difference.”

House felt his heart rate pick up. So he reached for the soothing familiarity of ridicule.

“You are truly pathetic. You can’t get a date—even with your wife—so you’re trying to wring a compliment out of your best friend.”

Wilson just kept smiling in that maddening way. “Wow, House,” he said, swaying slightly in his chair. “You sure are getting fl-flustered by a simple question.”

“You mean a sad little question that no grown man should ever ask,” House retorted, with more venom than he’d intended.

Wilson’s doofy grin faltered just a bit. House felt simultaneously guilty and stupid for, as even Drunk Wilson had deduced, getting flustered. Because Wilson was obviously just messing with him.

House sighed heavily and leaned over the table again. “OK, if it’ll end this embarrassing display on your part…Yes, Jimmy, when you wear green you look kinda pretty.”

Wilson watched him for a beat before saying, “I know,” with a glance toward his own shirt.

House followed his eyes. Ah, yes. Before leaving work, Wilson had changed into a polo shirt he’d brought to the office. It somehow hadn’t registered with House that the shirt was green.

But of course it was, he told himself. All of Wilson’s casual shirts were green. All two of them.

Well, Wilson might’ve had more than two non-work shirts, but he seemed to always wear the same ones around House—

_Which was…weird. Wasn’t it?_

House’s eyes landed on Wilson’s shirt again—specifically near the collar, where the two buttons were undone. The green was a nice shade: rich, but not as bright and flashy as the tie had been. It looked good against Wilson’s pale skin.

_Wait. No, no, no._

House pushed his bourbon away. “Wow. And people think I’m the narcissist.”

Wilson shrugged. “We all have our colors,” he said innocently. “You look good in blue.”

House felt his heart rate quicken again. What the fuck was Wilson playing at? “OK, you’re officially cut off,” he said, flicking a finger toward his friend’s empty glass.

Wilson bit his lip and unleashed the puppy eyes. But House was having none of it.

“You only compliment me when you’re completely sloshed,” he accused. “And if I bring you home to Julie that way, I’ll catch hell…And then I might say something somewhat rude to her.”

Wilson tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress a giggle.

House sighed. “If you stop drinking now, there’s a chance you’ll be presentable by the time I drop you off.”

Wilson looked down and began to tap his fingers on his glass. “ _Orrr,_ ” he cajoled, “I could have one more drink and then crash on your couch.” He peered at House from under his stupid hair.

House cleared his throat. “You really think that’s gonna smooth things over with your wife?”

Wilson cast his eyes down again. “She won’t mind.”

House knew he should stand firm. He should insist that his couch was not a refuge for Wilson when he wanted to escape his life. But the truth was, House had decided long ago that he preferred how his couch looked with Wilson on it. So he’d let him crash there yet again—strictly for decorative purposes.

“Fine,” House grumbled, signaling to the waitress.

 

*******

 

Once Wilson was set up with a simple vodka tonic, House settled back to wait. Between sips, Wilson babbled about how when they were kids, he and his older brother loved to sleep in the tent in their backyard. Then he pondered whether he and Julie would be happier if he started sleeping in a tent in the yard.

House pretended to listen, by making scornful sounds every so often.

But mostly, he just kept glancing at the green shirt. Or really, the small triangle of skin exposed below Wilson’s throat. And he tried to brush off the question of why his eyes were so drawn to his best friend’s sternum.

Probably because it was an uncommon sight, House reasoned. Wilson was almost always buttoned up. Plus, he saw Wilson’s goofy face every day; it was only natural for House’s eyes to train toward less familiar territory.

And if there was a fleeting moment where House wondered what that smooth-looking skin might feel like, or a flash of what Wilson might look like wearing just the green tie…Well, that was clearly the bourbon.

House had just shaken off said image when an entirely different thought hit him. A thought so obvious he felt slow for not realizing it before.

“That’s why Julie hates green,” he proclaimed, interrupting Wilson’s ramblings. “She knows.”

Wilson squinted. “Hmm?”

“She knows you’re trying to look pretty,” House said, smirking. “Every time she sees you leaving home in your spiffy green garb, she has to wonder if you’re off to do your courtship dance.”

Wilson dropped his head into his hands. “No more peacocks,” he pleaded.

House pointed an index finger at the top of Wilson’s head. “You hate my peacock metaphor because you know it’s true.”

Wilson looked up. “I know it’s stupid.”

“Admit it,” House pressed. “You _are_ on the make. You’re not just trying to be nice to New Oncology Nurse—”

“She asked me to talk. What was I supposed to—”

“Oh, I dunno. _Not_ turn it into two lunch dates? That’s an option.”

Wilson shook his head. “House. For the last time—I am not interested in Susan.” He was clearly struggling just to keep his eyes open and focused, but for a few seconds Wilson held House’s gaze intently.

House wasn’t sure how to read Wilson’s face just then, but he felt an odd flutter in his chest. There was a stretch of silence where he thought he should say something—ask a question, push the issue as he would in any other situation.

For once, though, no words came to him. And then Wilson looked away, off toward the bar.

House studied his profile for a bit, looking for…something. But then he decided it didn’t matter. Wilson was either messing with him or was too drunk to know what he was doing. He reached for his cane, just for something to do with his hands.

“House?” He heard Wilson’s now-weary voice. “Can we go? I feel…”

House groaned. “God. If you puke in my car—”

“No,” Wilson said, waving a hand. “Just tired. Let’s go home.”

House looked at him for a beat, but Wilson didn’t seem to notice his mistake. “You’re coming with me, right?” House clarified, mentally cringing at the uncertainty in his voice.

“Mmm.” Wilson nodded as he rose unsteadily from his chair, before beginning a skirmish with his jacket.

House rolled his eyes and laid some cash on the table. “You totally owe me for those drinks,” he griped as he slipped into his coat.

“Mmm,” Wilson said again, then surprised House by latching onto his free arm.

House stared at him. “You’re relying on the cripple for balance?”

“Yep,” Wilson affirmed, swaying a bit.

“Christ,” House muttered, even as he shifted closer to Wilson. “You know you’re an unbelievable loser, I trust?”

“I do.”

“Careful. That’s the phrase that got you into this mess.”

Wilson giggled, then hiccupped. He tightened his grip on House’s arm as they moved haltingly toward the door. “Shut up. ’M tired.”

“Quit bitching,” House said mildly. “We’re going home.”

“Mm-hmm.” Wilson sighed as they hit the crisp night air, and House thought he might be leaning in a bit more. “Maybe I’ll show you my peacock dance,” Wilson mumbled off-handedly.

“Looking forward,” House said, knowing Wilson would be unconscious within seconds of walking through the apartment door.

But House allowed him to inch closer still, and even slipped his hand to Wilson’s back for the last handful of steps to the car. It was OK, House decided. They would both forget this by tomorrow.

 

_—End_


End file.
